


Sam Winchester; Age 8

by tcwordsmith



Series: Hundred Acres of Go Fuck Yourself (HAoGFY) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:49:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tcwordsmith/pseuds/tcwordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets in trouble at school. Bobby figures somebody's gotta be the parent around here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam Winchester; Age 8

“Dude, seriously? _You_ got in trouble?” Dean laughed and reached over to ruffle Sammy’s hair, just a hint of pride coloring his words. They were walking from the bus stop back to Bobby’s and the sun was shining and Sammy had gotten a note sent home with him from his teacher.

“Shut _up_ , Dean,” Sammy growled, trying to flatten his hair back down and grabbing for the note in Dean’s hands. His face was red from a mixture of embarrassment and exertion and he was just barely holding back hot, angry tears. He didn’t like getting in trouble, hadn’t meant to. Now Dean was making fun of him for it, and he hated when Dean teased him like this.

Dean just gently pushed Sam back a bit and kept walking, “Hey, man, you’re the one who got a note sent home. Says here she wants to talk to your parents. Guess Bobby’ll have to go in and make nice or somethin’.” He turned and let Sammy see his grin, so the kid would know he didn’t mean anything bad by what he was saying. “C’mon, Sammy, you never get in trouble and I always do. Lemme have my moment here.” Sam just sighed and stopped fighting and the two of them kept trudging toward the junkyard. 

Bobby was pissed. Sam could tell because there were two beers on the counter and Bobby had disappeared outside but they could still hear him shouting into his phone at what could only be John. The longer the conversation dragged, the harder Sam chewed his lower lip. He was pretty sure he could chew a hole straight through if he had enough time.

“I’m sorry,” Sammy muttered finally, and Dean just dragged him into a hug. Hugs from Dean were rare these days; Dean was practically a teenager and practically teenagers don’t hug their little brothers much. He shoved his face into the leather jacket Dean was still wearing and forced himself not to say it again. He’d said it, and that would have to be enough.

“Ya ain’t yet, boy, but yer gonna be,” Bobby growled, stomping in from the back porch and slamming the phone back on its hook. “You know this says I gotta go in and talk to your teacher about whatever it is you’ve done?” He waved the now crumpled note around a bit. “Hate talkin’ to yer damn teachers,” he muttered, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Sam sniffled. He couldn’t help it, he didn’t like being in trouble, especially not with Bobby. “It’s okay, Sammy. Everybody gets in trouble,” Dean muttered, pulling him closer and probably glaring at Bobby over Sam’s head.

“Aw, hell boy, it ain’t the end of the world. You two go on and get washed up for supper,” Bobby sighed and waved the brothers off. It was gonna be a three or four Pigby night; he just knew it.

The next morning, Bobby told the boys to just wait for him after school instead of getting on the bus, “No sense in us all runnin’ around. I’ll just take you home after this meetin’ with your teacher.” He’d made sure they got their lunches and down to the bus stop on time. Sam tried to say sorry again, but Bobby just said, “Hush, boy.” and kicked them out of the truck.  
\----  


Sam spent the day worrying. He’d never had to have a parent conference before, and what if the teacher decided Bobby wasn’t enough parent and what if they got in worse trouble and his brain wouldn’t calm down. Dean showed up around lunch time, like he just knew Sam was freaking out too much, and stole his Twinkies.  


“Oh come on, you weren’t gonna eat ‘em anyway, Sammy. You’re too busy runnin’ your head in circles about the meeting thing,” he’d said, stuffing the second Twinkie in his mouth and giving Sam a wink.  


“Yeah, but,” Sam loved Twinkies, but Dean was right. He wasn’t going to eat them. He sighed and shrugged, “I’m just worried something worse is gonna happen, Dean.”  


Dean reached over and messed up Sam’s hair, “Aw, Sammy, ain’t nothin’ bad gonna happen. You’ll see.” He’d jumped off the table and sauntered back to the middle school’s part of the campus then, winking at one of Sammy’s girl friends on his way. Sam just rolled his eyes and mashed his paper bag into a tiny ball.  


The rest of the day dragged by and Sam was pretty sure it was both never going to end and going to end all too soon. Then it was exactly three and the last bell rang over at the middle school and Sam just had to sit there and wait. His teacher had taken the rest of the class out to the buses, and Sam pulled out his math workbook. If he was stuck here, he might as well finish his homework.  


Ten minutes later, Dean slouched into the room and dropped his bag next to Sammy’s. “Hey, Sammy,” he murmured, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. He reached over and ruffled Sam’s hair and Sam almost smiled.  


“Hey, Dean. Did you see Bobby?” Sam looked over at his brother and fidgeted with his pencil. Dean just shook his head.  


“He’ll be here soon I’m sure,” he reassured Sam.  


The classroom door opened a few minutes later and Bobby strode in. Sam blinked and Dean actually sat up in his chair. Bobby was wearing his nice pair of jeans and had actually buttoned up his flannel shirt and tucked it into the jeans. He was still wearing his hat, of course, but it was still Bobby. He gave the boys a look and nodded. Dean tipped his head up in greeting and Sam gave a half wave. Oh god, this was really happening.  


“Mr. Singer?” The teacher asked and stood to shake his hand.  


Bobby nodded and slipped his hat off his head, “Yes, ma’am, we spoke on the phone last night.” He tucked his hat into his back pocket.  


“It's so good to meet you finally, Mr. Singer. Please, sit,” she indicated a chair next to her desk. Bobby sat and spared another glance at the boys. Sammy fidgeted with his pencil until Dean stole it from him and shoved it in his jacket pocket.  


“Good to meet you too, now what’s this about Sam gettin’ into trouble?” Bobby leaned forward in his chair a bit and the teacher nodded briskly.  


She reached down beside her desk and pulled up a stack of newsprint, “Yes, well. During art time yesterday, Sam…Took his artistic license a bit too far. It’s not the end of the world, but I felt we needed to discuss what is and isn’t appropriate classroom behavior.” Sam squirmed in his seat. Dean leaned forward on his elbows, eager to see what all the fuss was about. The teacher finally found what she was looking for and slid the paper over to Bobby. “Now, I think you’ll agree—”  


“Oh balls, is that all he did?” Bobby interrupted the teacher. He was looking down at the paper in his hands, a smile threatening to cut across his face. The teacher huffed.  


“Mr. Singer, this is a third grade classroom. We do not talk like that in here, and we certainly do not write what Sam wrote there,” she explained primly.  


Bobby stood up and kept a tight grip on the picture in question, looking over at the boys, “You two get in the truck. We’ve got shit to do.” Dean scooped up both of their backpacks and hoisted them over his arm. Sammy just looked a little dumbfounded. He moved quickly enough when Dean cuffed him across the back of the head and muttered, “Move, Sammy.” They left for the parking lot, both upset they weren’t going to hear whatever Bobby was clearly about to say.  


Once the boys left, Bobby stepped away from the desk and gave the teacher a pointed look, “Lady, there is no way writin’ “damn” in the middle of a word on a picture the kid drew in art class warrants draggin’ me all the damn way down here and scarin’ the boy like that. When he tries to set the bathroom on fire or gets in a fight, you give me a call.”  


“Mr. Singer, I hardly think we’re done here,” the teacher spluttered.  


He crossed his arms, careful not to hurt the picture, “You want me to get the principal in here? The kid wrote the word damn. Ya tell him not to do it again and you move on. You don’t try to call his daddy down here and potentially get him in a world more trouble than he needs. Even if one of the other kids did see it, you think they ain’t heard worse around their own dinner tables?” Bobby turned and left then; he didn’t have time for this shit.  


“Shut up,” he muttered at the boys when he got in the truck, tossing the picture upside down on the dashboard.  


“We didn’t even--” Dean started to say.  


Bobby cut him a look, “Then _don’t,_ Dean.” They were quiet the rest of the way back to the salvage yard.  


\----

Back home, Bobby grabbed the picture and slammed the truck door before stomping inside. Dean and Sam shrugged at each other and quickly followed him.  


“I’ll get dinner started. Dean, you can go on out back and get started choppin’ wood. You’re gonna have a week of it,” Bobby rubbed his hand across his face and gave Dean a ‘don’t argue, boy’ look.  


“Are you kidding? What d’I have to chop the wood for? Sammy’s the one who wrote damn!” Dean whined and tossed the backpacks next to the door.  


“Boy, don’t argue with me right now. You taught him the damn word, you’re gonna chop wood because I had to go sit in a classroom and talk to some uppity teacher who thinks some kid writin’ damn is the end of the damn world. Now git before I make it two weeks,” Bobby set the picture on the countertop and started pulling potatoes out of the potato bin and turned his back on Dean and Sammy. Dean sighed loudly and stomped out back.  


Sam stood in the kitchen doorway and worried on his lower lip. “What, boy?” Bobby finally barked.  


Sam just shrugged, “I’m sorry, Bobby.” He needed to say it just one more time.  


Bobby set down the potato and the potato peeler in his hands and looked at Sam. “I know you didn’t mean nothin’ bad by it, boy. But, you know better than to listen to your fool headed brother by now.” Sam nodded. The older man sighed, “My books need alphabetizing. You go get on that.”  


“Really?” Sam looked up at Bobby, the fringe of his bangs starting to obscure his line of sight and Bobby nodded.  


“Might as well get some use outta you,” he muttered. Sam grinned and went to the den to work on the books. Bobby stood at the counter another minute before he picked up the picture and gave it another look. It said "SAM AGE 8" on the back.  


He shook his head and made his way over to the refrigerator. He found a magnet that wasn’t holding up one of Dean’s more creative detention slips, or the pictures Sam took on his last class field trip, and situated the picture in the middle of one of the refrigerator doors.  


The picture itself was of a tiny scruffy pig, a bear in a leather jacket, an angry rabbit far off in the background, and a little blue donkey with long hair standing on his back legs with his hoof tucked inside the bear's paw. Over the top there was a giant smiley face sun and a hastily scrawled "My Fam-damn-ily!!"


End file.
